The Rise of The Gargoyle
by zombie.painkillers
Summary: Pre-Gorillaz exposition fic. Multichapter (au) account of how Murdoc and Stu initially met and became friends, prior to starting the band. Rated M for language, violence, and mild drug use. (Background information for the characters as portrayed in this au is available upon request; pm me and I will link you to any additional content!)
1. Chapter 1

Part 1: The Beginning

 _He shows up at your home uninvited, when you are alone, and sweeps you away in a mess of hard liquor and white powdered haze. Fast cars, loud bass, and the blur of streetlamps and come to a screeching halt, bodies pile out of seats and he leads you into the house, into the basement; where the air is thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of vomit and beer. He drags you to the rotting sofa under the window and pulls you into his arms, stroking your hair and laughing roughly at an off-colour joke with no discernible source. Needles. White powder. Somebody touches you, you don't know who - but it feels good. You keep silent and allow it until he swats them away, cursing and harsh. He's holding you again, and you can barely see him through the fog as you begin to drift... but when he speaks, you hear him clear as day. "Stick with me, kid. We're gonna be a band." His nails are in your scalp, but his words hit something within you and it sticks, even as your vision begins to tunnel. Everything you never wanted, but it's so goddamn tempting. You're too doped up to disagree._

* * *

Autumn had come. The air was crisp with it as Stuart wandered the fairground, his sneakers crunching upon leaves and discarded popcorn as he walked. The wind picked up a little, swirling leaves and dust about his feet and smarting his hatless head, making him wince. _Bad weather for it,_ he thought, plucking a cigarette from his breast pocket and pressing it to his lips, lighting it a moment after. _Gonna have'ta close the place down soon..._ The tip of his cigarette crackled orange as he inhaled, relishing the warmth that filled his lungs and the bittersweet tobacco flavour that burned itself onto his tongue. The second cigarette of the day; the second of his allotted four. He was going to have to do his best to savour it before heading back home or his mother would pitch a fit. There were certainly worse things he could be doing, but he would never remind her of that - there were quite a few of them that he'd already indulged in, and the risk of her discovering his other habits far outweighed any sense of satisfaction he could obtain by challenging her word. Besides; he ought to stop poisoning himself anyway...

Stu thrust his hand back into the pocket of his sports coat and continued on, focusing on his cig and eyeing the clouds thoughtfully. It was going to storm. The radio had crackled on about it that morning, which was another reason why the fair was closed today, aside from it being Sunday. Thunder and lightening had been forecast to hit Crawley pretty hard, and it wasn't worth the risk to run the ferris wheel or anything else. Which was disappointing, because it robbed Stuart of something to do with himself on such a dull, sleepy day. He supposed at the very least he could rent a movie, although there wouldn't be anyone to watch it with really. _Robert could come by, but he hates horror... and he'd want to get high..._ Which they couldn't really do, not at the Pot's house. And Stu really didn't feel like going to anyone else's place. The video idea was good though, and the rental was close enough to the route back home.

"Maybe they'll have somethin' good, Needful Things or whatever," Stu muttered, pleased with the idea. He put out the last of his cigarette and sniffled slightly, running his fingers through his shaggy light hair before heading back toward the entrance of the fairground. He'd grab himself a movie, some junk food, something veg for dinner, and just chill. It was the most he could do before Monday came round again.

* * *

 _"How's dad?" you ask, lighting your cigarette. Your throat feels raw, and the smoke burns when you inhale, but you hold your grimace and swallow your cough. He'll laugh if he sees, and you can't have it. You won't have it. You're leaning against the trunk of his rust-bucket car, parked outside the house with the basement of smoke. The nicotine calms the pounding you can feel in your skull, and with any luck it will mask the taste of bile lingering on your tongue. Hannibal snorts distastefully, and you steel yourself against the stench of sugar sweet vanilla as he exhales a drag from his cigarillo in your face._

 _"Bastard son of a cunt; who cares how he is," he rasps, spitting dangerously close to your boots. You shift aside and shrug, taking another drag of your own smoke. The burning in your throat is going numb, a promising sign. There's a clamour from the house and a string of muffled curses, but he doesn't seem alarmed, so you try your best not to be either. "He's still alive, although we can always pray otherwise," Hannibal continues, grinning at you harshly before flicking ash against your jacket. He takes your free hand in his for a moment, and under the filth and grease on his fingers, you can still make out how much paler he is compared to you. A new tattoo: a swastika in the space between his thumb and forefinger catches your eye and holds your attention, successfully distracting you as he puts his cigarillo out on the cuff of your jacket, damaging the soft black leather._

 _He laughs as you shout in protest, shoving you roughly and making you drop your cigarette as you try to swat him away. Suddenly you're seeing stars, and you can still see them even as he leads you to the passengers side and pushes your body into the seat. The car rumbles to life, and you watch the stars silently as the world becomes distant and you become lost within yourself. Dimly, you consider your aunt: worrying her way through communion, wondering where you've gone. But a voice beyond yourself chides that she'll be fine, she knows you're good, you can look after yourself. Besides, it's 1pm. You slept in late and woke up hungover, she's back home by now and frustrated as hell. There's no real fixing it; and that's all you can try to remember as the car fills and rumbles to life. You have no idea where you're going, but you know it won't be home..._

* * *

The credits rolled and flickered on Stu's tv, filling his room with a dim blue, gritty light. A bottle of painkillers sat open on his bedside table, and he clutched their missing lid in his hands as he slept; still hunched awkwardly in the position he'd been laying in to watch his movie. Takeout boxes; with the remnants of cheese pakoras, rice, and curried cauliflower littered the floor at the foot of his bed. Outside, the rain pounded steadily against his window, and every few minutes the sky would crack with lightning or the rumble of thunder. The storm had arrived as promised, and it had offered a perfect ambiance for Stu's film of choice, Psycho; a real classic. He had only made it about halfway through before drifting off, his stomach full and his head swimming in a pharmaceutical daze. He didn't hear when his mother came home and checked on him, switching the tv off and making sure he was properly covered and his curtains were closed. She cleaned the trash off his floor and kissed his forehead before leaving him again, sleeping soundly. By the time he woke up late for school the next day, he had slept a full 11 hours, although it made very little difference on how exhausted he felt. And for the next few days, it was the same old thing. Uneventful. Until Wednesday, that is.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2: Uncle Norm's

It was a surprisingly nice evening, so Stu figured as he glanced out the front window of the Emporium, tapping his chin absently. Nice looking outside, terribly slow in here. There had been hardly any customers since five o'clock, and it was nearly nine now. Almost time to close up shop. Norm (the "Uncle" wasn't necessary beyond formality, Stu had dropped it within a week) was in the back room organizing stock and cleaning to kill time while Stu managed the front. He had been there long enough now that he was left alone almost all the time, and that suited him just fine. The idea of theft had never been a concern. At worst, Stu would simply space out and forget himself, or get bored and start picking at the counter. Tonight it was the latter. He desperately wanted a cigarette; and he was just about to mention this to Norm when he heard a car pulling into the lot. A clamour of loud chatter and rock-n-roll met his ears as the front store was illuminated by headlights and Stu perked up immediately, leaning forward on the counter and craning his neck to see who was coming.

The door flew open in a rush, sending the bell above it into jingling hysterics. A group of young men several years older than Stuart shuffled in noisily, and the scent of alcohol and pot followed after them like a heatwave, making Stu cringe. It had been a long time since he'd taken a hit, and the smell made him feel both ill and alive all at once. He made an attempt to greet the men, offering a smile and any assistance they might need, but he was completely ignored. Frustrated, Stu began to leave the counter when the doorbell rang again, softly this time, and he turned to see who was coming.

The newcomer was another man, but he seemed significantly younger than his companions, much closer to Stuart's age. He was short and wiry, dressed in black jean and leather, and Stu watched as he put a set of keys into his jacket pocket, humming in realization. The young man appeared sober; Stu guessed he was the evening's designated driver, and when their eyes met Stuart's suspicions were confirmed - no haze, no bloodshot - the other's eyes were dark and sharp and clear, and they lit up upon taking in Stuart's face. The man sauntered over with a grin, and his suave, collected behaviour had Stu's undivided attention.

"Hey, duck," the man said amiably, resting his hands at his sides. "Slow night?"

Stu blinked before nodding, shifting into his standard customer service behaviour with little effort. "'s never that busy on weeknights," he said, relaxing his posture. "I didn't think anyone else was gonna come in, actually."

"Eh, we're just visiting town and trying to hit up as many music stores as we can. Wanted to see if you lot had anything besides keys, but I guess not."

"Oh no, we have more instruments in the back!" Stu started, pulling away from the counter enthusiastically. "I can show you where -"

"Nah, it's okay," the other interrupted with a shrug. "Idiots hardly brought any money anyway, they're just stoned and browsing. I'll try to have 'em out of here as soon as I can; they're a mess."

Stu nodded, trying to hide his disappointment at being denied a chance to stretch his legs and escape the prison of the check out. There was a moment of silence that he fidgeted through, listening for any ruckus going on in the back of the store, but there was only laughter and nothing of any real concern. He turned back to the man across from him and smiled, suddenly alight with a possible topic. "Are you a musician?" he asked. It could have been a very stupid question, but the thought hadn't occured to him.

"Yeah, I fucking try anyway," the other man chuckled, swiping at his nose as he laughed. "I play bass. Mostly self taught. You?"

"Keyboards," Stu replied, glancing pointedly at the walls of the store and chuckling back. "I'm self taught too, mostly! Tried lessons for a while but I can't read music worth shit. I can learn almost anything on my own though, if you let me try. I'm jus' better at feeling it out, you know?"

The other man nodded, seeming impressed. "Playing by ear's a bloody gift, kid. Have you ever considered making a living out of it?"

"Oh jesus, no! I mean, not really. I mean... I'd be lying if I said it hadn't crossed my mind a couple times. But getting that shit off the ground is hard, yeah? Bands. 's'not an easy thing to do."

"Fair enough," the other shrugged, running a hand through the mess of wavy dark hair on his head. "But hey - if you ever change your mind..." he leaned forward conspiratorially, and from this distance Stu could make out the ruddy, red gleam of his left eye. "We're trying to get something together, and I would kill for a pianist. If you can do any vocals too that would be incredible. Right now all we have is Mark, and if I'm being polite... he sucks absolute ass."

Stuart's face flushed and he snorted, covering his mouth to stifle his laughter. He was considering the offer though, quite seriously. "Have you got a number or somethin' I can reach you with?" he asked, clearing his throat. The man nodded and reached across the counter swiftly to grab one of Stu's pens. Stu began to print off a slip of reciept paper when he felt his hand being tugged, and before he could protest the man was scribbling down his phone number on Stu's palm.

"Call me whenever, every night except Sunday or Monday. I gotta drive my aunt to Mass..." He rolled his eyes and shook his head, but he was smiling. Stu nodded, looking down at his hand and puzzling over the text.

"M... Muirdoc?" he asked haltingly, glancing up. The man nodded.

"Murdoc Niccals, yeah. Sorry my writing's shit."

"Nah it's okay. 'm Stuart," Stu said cheerfully, extending the hand that was still clean out of habit. Murdoc took it and shook it a bit awkwardly, pulling back and mussing his hair again. A gold cross swung across his chest at the motion, and the reflection from it caught Stu's eye. A proper catholic crucifix, turned upside down and hanging from a matching gold chain. The bottom where the chain attached looked damaged and whittled, as though it had been done post purchase. Perhaps at home. With a rusty screwdriver.

"You're cross is upside down," Stu remarked with a puzzled expression, and Murdoc's voice was rough and gravelly when he laughed.

"Yeah, don't I fuckin' know it," he said with a touch of pride in his voice. This didn't help answer any of Stu's questions. He had no time to ask for an explanation though before the sounds of Murdoc's companions noisily making their way back to the front of the store reached his ears and interrupted him. The tallest of the group approached Murdoc first, nudging him roughly.

"There ain't nothing worth buying here, Muds," he said gruffly, seeming irritated in his intoxicated state. "Take us home, yeah?"

Murdoc frowned slightly and backed away at the other man's touch, but he said nothing. Instead, he took out his keys and offered Stu a nod before heading toward the door. No sooner had the bell rung when Stu noticed something jutting awkwardly out of the tallest man's back pocket. He recognized it immediately as one of the packs of guitar strings from the store, and he cleared his throat loudly to get Murdoc's attention.

"You plannin' on paying for those?" he asked as casually as he could, motioning toward the lifted goods. Murdoc's skin grew pale instantly and he whirled on the taller man, stomping his foot sharply.

"Hannibal! For fuck's sake, give the kid back whatever the hell it is you grabbed!" he shouted angrily, glaring up at the other with murder and something akin to betrayal on his face. Hannibal growled, snatching the strings from his back pocket and chuckling them carelessly towards the check out before shoving roughly past Murdoc and out the door. The others followed after him quietly, all seeming equally as pissed with Murdoc as Hannibal had been. The sound of heavy metal flooded the room, followed by a collection of forceful car door slams. Murdoc stood uncomfortably in the doorway, biting his lip. Finally he pulled away from the door and back into the shop, cursing softly under his breath. He fished around in his pockets and came up with a handful of five pound notes and coin, slamming them to the counter and looking ashamed.

"Keep the change, Stuart," he said quietly, sighing. "Don't bother calling." And he was out of the store and starting the car before Stu had a chance to respond, leaving the store dead quiet with his absence. The screech of rubber on concrete was the last indication that Murdoc had been there at all, and Stu was left wondering what the hell had just happened.


End file.
